


i could learn to pity fools (as i’m the worst of all)

by Sister



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mentions of childhood abuse, jason being an idiot, tim and kon are technically underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:33:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1547498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sister/pseuds/Sister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But why do you <em>care?</em>” Tim says, voice fading out at the end. </p>
<p>Jason shrugs, awkward and embarrassed. “Nobody else seemed to. Figured it was time for me to take some responsibility.”</p>
<p>++</p>
<p>Tim has a thing for Kon. Jason finds out and his big brother instincts kick into overdrive. Things quickly go south, the way they always do when Jason is involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i could learn to pity fools (as i’m the worst of all)

**Author's Note:**

> I'd just like to point out that all opinions, thoughts, and value judgments expressed herein are Jason Todd's and NOT my own. I think Kon's a swell kid, personally.

i could learn to pity fools (as i’m the worst of all)

 

            Jason may have been a pill when he was younger and still in the panties, but he’s confident he was never as bad as Damian. The kid’s a menace. He’s rude, pompous beyond belief, and has a stick shoved so far up his ass Jason’s surprised he can still walk. Damian hates Tim, hates Jason, hates the girls, and takes orders from no one but Dick. He’s more trouble than he’s worth in the field and as like to pull a knife on you as pass the maple syrup at the mansion. Jason loves him. Jason thinks he’s wonderful. He likes nothing better these days than to perch atop the giant dinosaur statue and watch this latest brat wonder have a go at his predecessor, an inevitability whenever the two are in the same room.

            Right now Tim is running DNA samples through the system and reading a psychology textbook while they render. Tim’s enrolled in online classes, getting a college degree through correspondence rather than bothering with the time constraints of lectures and the college scene. Jason understands that Stephanie’s at Gotham U, making a real go of it, so it’s also possible Tim’s just trying to one-up her again. Jason personally scoffs at the idea of college. It’s not like he’ll ever have a job asking for his diploma.

            It’s nine AM and Jason’s dressed, but Tim’s in flannel pyjama pants and a black t-shirt with the Super S done in red. Jason’s sure he’s seen that shirt before, but he can’t put his finger on it. Damian’s stretching in the corner, casting irritated glances Tim’s way every few seconds. Jason settles in for the show.

            “Really, Drake, there’s no need to advertise your sexual proclivities,” he finally snaps. Jason’s face screws up in the same confusion as Tim’s.

            “I know I’ll regret asking, but what are you talking about?” Tim’s looking a little shifty down by those computers. Jason is intrigued.

            “Your shirt,” Damian sniffs. “Tell the Clone to keep his clothes on his body, and his body out of Gotham City. Or need I inform Father of unwanted meta activity?”

            Clone, shirt, meta… Superboy? Princess Timmy’s getting it on with Superboy? Well well. Jason slides down the dinosaur’s tail and into the conversation. “What a fascinating revelation, Demon Child. One I confess I knew nothing about.”

            “Go die, Hood,” Damian bites. Jason chuckles and decides not to risk ruffling Damian’s hair.

            “Replacement? Sit down and tell Uncle Jay all about it. Is he dreamy? Does he make your heart flutter?”

            Tim’s bright red. “It’s not like that,” he mutters as he presses a key combo. The computer continues to run on autopilot while Tim scoops up his textbook and holds it protectively over the S on his chest. “Stay out of it,” he warns Jason before executing a perfect heel-turn and making for the stairs. Jason hooks a foot around Tim’s shin as he passes and pulls. Tim does an easy one-handed handspring and lands on his feet, still walking.

            Well then. Jason had planned to clear out to Blüdhaven for a few days, but maybe that can wait. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve heard in weeks,” he tells Damian. He catches the shuriken Damian throws between two fingers and flicks it back at him. The upper computer bank is free and perfect for snooping; he flips up and opens Superboy’s files.

            Jason’s missed a lot, being dead and then more or less on the run. He doesn’t know much about the generation that came after him and has been too stubborn and hurt to learn. He’s done his best to just tune out whenever one of the Bats mentions Impulse or Blue Beetle or anyone else in that crew. Or worse, _Damian’s_ generation, that nebulous array of powered toddlers that everyone has such _high hopes_ for. The real cherry on the cake, though, is the legacy names. It kills him to hear Tim mention Wonder Girl and mean some blonde chick and not Donna Troy.            

            So he’s ignored Superboy’s existence, big deal. There just wasn’t a reason to care before. Now he’s been given the juiciest reason of all on a silver platter. The kid’s files are long—suspiciously long. They start normally enough, Name: Conner Kent, Codename: Superboy, Kryptonian Name: Kon-El, Residence: Smallville, Kansas, Guardians: Martha and Jonathan Kent. Then things get weird. “Age: see Clone Status” makes him frown, and the “Clone Status” item itself narrows his eyes. The rest of the files feed the icy feeling growing in his stomach.

            It seems young Conner Kent is not only a Superman clone, but half Lex Luthor as well. That’s all well and good, you can’t help your parentage, but apparently Conner has a nasty history of going off the rails, succumbing to his Lex genes and hurting those closest to him. Jason scrolls down the list of whom this unfortunate habit has included, lip curling. Finally his cursor hovers over the name he’d been expecting and dreading: Tim Drake/Robin: minor lacerations, bruising, some internal bleeding, burns, pulled muscle, broken arm [NOTE: arm broken deliberately and by hand]. Jason can almost see Bruce struggling to maintain his composure as he added that pointed aside.

            It’s clear Batman hates the kid. Well, not much of a kid. The Clone. There are few privileged enough to be absolved after hurting one of the Bat Brood; Jason should know, he’s practically the mascot. Jason’s really fucked up with the Bats in the past, especially Tim. Hell, he _shot_ Tim, left him for dead. Sort of. He was planning to come back.

            In any case, it’s been hard work, rebuilding even a modicum of trust once Jason wised up and thrown in his chips with the right crowd. Jason expects the Bats won’t ever trust him fully, even though they let him into their Cave and their home. But _Jason_ can vouch for himself. _Jason_ knows that he won’t be going rogue again, or firing rounds at any of the Gotham vigilantes. Tim is safe from him now, even if Tim probably doesn’t know that. He used to look at Tim, back in the day, back when he was fresh from the Pit and wild, and barely be able to see him. Through his rage and grief he could only make out the silhouette of a boy wearing his old colors. Jason filled in the details for himself. He was a bull and Tim was a red cape. Things are different now. His hatred has cooled and he’s not sure what’s taken its place, if anything at all. He can look at Tim, really look at him, meet his eyes and watch him work, and feel…curiosity. Interest. A halting respect for this solemn, delicate boy who’s had Robin yanked out from under him just the way Jason did. And sure, maybe it’s the way Tim’s lost the baby fat in his cheeks and remained slight and almost _dainty_ as he slides into adulthood, but Jason gives himself a pass on that. He’s always had a weakness for a pretty face.

            He doesn’t know about this Conner Kent. Maybe he’s like Jason, maybe he’s harmless now, declawed. Or maybe he’s got darkness bubbling just under the surface, ready to tear Tim apart when the kid’s at his most vulnerable.

            And Tim loves him. That much is absurdly obvious. Stupid, fragile Timmy, always falling for the dangerous. He’d love a mountain lion if it looked at him twice. Jason has a sudden, sharp memory of a tiny, ghostly-pale child with a camera turning up over and over again on patrols. As Robin, Jason had been both terrified and grateful for the camera boy. It was nice to have a fanclub, but Gotham streets were no place for a kid. Jason should know.

            It’s one thing to spread your legs for a rattlesnake while you’re on a mission. You’re in control of the situation, ready to shove the tranq needle you have hidden in an armband into the back of their neck. You don’t drop your guard. It’s quite another to trust that rattlesnake not to bite, hell, to assume it doesn’t have _fangs_. And fucking a Super? Jason makes a face. They’ve all got daddy-issues crushes on Clark, and Jason for one is eternally appreciative of Supergirl—Kylie? Karie?—and her miniskirt. But jumping in bed with any of them without a kryptonite condom is just a bad idea, and that’s before one of them beats you up and breaks your arm.

            Hours later Jason is in his work clothes and still fixated on the problem. What this situation calls for, he thinks, brooding into the sight of his sniper rifle, is some old-fashioned undercover work. Go back to being a gumshoe for a while, like in the old days. A stakeout, disguises, the whole bit. A thrill of excitement runs through him and he snorts, embarrassed at himself. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the rifle case and lights one, cupping his hand around the lit tip to block the light. He’s too professional to let something as dumb as a nicotine habit give him away.

            The cold of the Gotham January seeps into Jason’s uniform, raising goosebumps along his thighs and making his skin feel tight. He has to stay in place, though, much as he’d rather be pounding the pavement to warm up. He has his gun trained on the huge windows opening into market research exec Kenneth O’Donnell’s office, waiting for the appearance of the man himself. O’Donnell has a nasty habit of dragging the working girls of one of the poorer neighborhoods up to his office and smacking them around a bit. Jason figures a bullet through the hand or shoulder might break him of that habit, so here he is, stuck on a cold rooftop, thinking about Tim Drake.

            If Tim can’t understand the danger he’s placing himself in, Jason’s gonna have to understand it for him. He has a duty, now. Now that’s he’s thrown in his chips and shown his hand. He has a duty to protect his… Well, alright. Alright. Alright, fine. His _family_. Jason smokes the rest of the cig in frenetic puffs and coughs a little. Family. Jason doesn’t need it, doesn’t want it, but apparently has it anyway. It’s softened him. Made him weak. Look at him, for chrissake! Locked and loaded with weaponry well above military grade and only aiming to maim. Talia would laugh at him. Hell, probably _will_ laugh at him, the next time she comes courting the Bat.

            The real piss in the lemonade, though, is the fact that it’s Jason Todd, the Red Hood, semi-reformed killer and all-around fuckup, who’s putting his foot down about this Clone issue. Damian hates Tim, wouldn’t care if the Clone broke him in half, Cassandra seems not to get involved in personal issues if she can help it, and Jason would wager the Big Bat is pretending not to know, but Dick? Nosy, overinvolved Dickiebird surely has something to say about Conner Kent and where he puts his alien dong—but Jason has a nasty suspicion that Dick’s proud as punch for his little brother to “find happiness” or whatever sentimental bullshit Dick’s spouting this week. Tim’s life may be in Jason’s hands on this one, and it’s hard for Jason not to think of the last time that happened, when Jason put a bullet through Tim’s chest and considered leaving him to bleed out. And maybe he’s redeemed himself a little since then, has saved Tim in the field every now and again, but it’s not the same. That’s not the sort of thing you can just erase.

            This time will be different, Jason thinks, as O’Donnell appears in the office below, dragging one of the girls by her shockingly red hair—that’d be Cherry. He throws her onto the carpet and kicks her in the ribs, then moves to close the curtains. Against the window, arms raised, O’Donnell makes an easy target. Jason had only planned on one bullet, but it’s so delicious to pull the trigger twice and have O’Donnell on his back with his elbows blown off. Jason packs up his rifle and hoofs it away from the scene. Cherry’s a smart chick. She’ll handle things.

            When any of Bruce’s other pawns want to travel, all they have to do is take the jet or book a commercial ticket. There’s not much privacy for Jason—he’s still watched pretty closely, damn them all—and he figures it would be something of a red alert for him to fly to Smallville, Kansas unannounced. He could always bike, take out one of the semi-legal Ducatis he’s stashed in a safehouse, but it’s awfully cold and road conditions get testier the farther out into the Midwest you get. He opts instead for a train from Gotham to Chicago and then from Chicago to Kansas City. He stows away on the first—Bat-monitored cameras, more than likely—but pays for the second out of the wad of cash in his inside jacket pocket. There’s no easy way to get from Kansas City to little old Smallville without attracting attention, so he hides out in the back of a semi bound for the town and spends an uncomfortable few hours getting acquainted with a truly astonishing number of tractor tires.

            It’s a desolate place. Jason’s gotten used to Gotham again, the big-city lights and noise and skyscrapers. Smallville is flat, gray and brown in winter, piled high with snow. Smoke rises from the chimneys of shabby ranch houses and blanketed horses crop at the brown grass in cleared pens. It’s colder than Gotham. Jason shivers in his canvas overcoat and jeans. He checks the time on his watch—no trackable gadgets on this mission, just a burner phone for emergencies. 11 AM, and he hasn’t slept in a couple of days. He’ll need at least six hours tonight to make up for it or he’s like to lose track of himself, but right now he tramps off through the snow into town.

            According to his mental map of the place, Smallville High is on the outskirts of what passes for a city here. He gets there right at noon, muscles stiff and tight from the cold, the exercise having done nothing to warm them up. The school building is gray cinderblock and insulated high windows. Ugly, like the rest of the place. The Clone no doubt has Superman’s heightened senses, so Jason will have to be careful not to stand out in any way. He steals into a likely-looking wing of the building and dodges school officials until he finds the cafeteria. It’s already nearly full—Jason spots the built frame and clipped black hair of the Clone from across the room without even seeing his face. There’s no one else it can be. He’s sitting with a mixed group of boys and girls, the jocky, cheerleader type. It’s the loudest table in the room. Jason remembers that sort from middle school, back before he’d been killed. With popularity comes cruelty, in Jason’s experience. Jason hates him already, can imagine him charming touch-starved Timmy into doing anything. Jason knows the kid’s susceptible to that kind of thing, has used it on him himself more than once. He hasn't gone any further though—he makes the Replacement blush and then he backs off. He doesn’t _fuck_ him. And anyway, just because Jason does something doesn’t make it right. His whole life should be an cautionary tale for that.

            Jason pulls off his coat and jacket and slaps a nametag onto the front pocket of the flannel he wears underneath. The tag gives his name as Tanner, a solid name more popular in rural areas than cities. There are bananas at the salad bar, far away from the lunch ladies who might make him pay. He grabs one and attends to the last-minute details of his appearance, pushes the escaped strands of his white streak back up and under his gray beanie and forces his face into a smile. He sets off through the maze of cafeteria tables, trying to keep his posture a little confused, his expression good-natured. The tables are large and round, metal with a thin coating of fake wood. The chairs are cheap yellow plastic, gouged and pitted from years of hard use by the generations of punk future farmers that pass through this school. Jason tosses his outer layers over the back of the only one left at the Clone’s table and slides into the seat. Someone has carved a penis on the edge of the table. Jason folds his arms over it.

            The occupants of the table are looking at him with a mixture of annoyance and alarm. Jason figures they don’t see many strangers around here. There are six kids in all at the table, the Clone, three other beefy-looking guys, and two girls in sweaters with such deep V-necks that Jason figures their boobs have got to be _freezing_. Jason’s sitting between two of the dudes, one with a recently broken nose and the other sporting a John Deer snapback.

            Jason spent the uncomfortable three hours in the back of the semi polishing his Midwestern clip. “Well hey there. No, don’t make this weird. I just came from the office, they gave me one of these”—he taps his nametag—“and told me where to get some grub. Thought I’d quiz the locals while I’m here. You guys seemed like a likely bunch.”

            “Um, who are you exactly?” says one of the girls, the blonde one. She’s chewing bubblegum in lieu of eating anything.

            Here’s where Jason needs to become unexpectedly cool. “Tanner. Tanner Smith.” He lets his face relax into a lazy smile, leans back in his chair. He’s got two days of stubble on his jaw and black curls peeking out from underneath his beanie. He knows he’s hot. He’s almost twenty-three and looks it, looks maybe even a little older. “I’m down from up Topeka way. Not much stockcar racing happening in the winter like this, so I thought we’d come down where it’s quieter for a few months. Used to have family in Smallville, lotta years ago.”

            The Clone’s staring at him. The whole table’s staring at him, but the jocks look like they haven’t managed to get the hamster running on their collective wheel. The girls are mostly charmed, or are at least checking him out, which is a step in the right direction. The Clone, though, is narrowing his eyes. Jason plows ahead.

            “Got my little brother, right. Making sure the school’s good for him. He’s, what, a junior? Hard year. Needs a decent classroom. Smart kid, though, you’ll like him.”

            “We don’t get many folks touring,” says the jock sitting next to Jason, the one with the hat.

            “Landon, don’t be rude,” says the brunette girl. She’s got a little color high on her cheeks. An easy mark, Jason thinks. “I’d love to show you around after lunch,” she says. “I’ve got a free period.”

            “Maybe so,” Jason says easily. He catches her gaze until she dips her head. “You guys look like football players, huh? Cheerleaders?” The kids nod.

            “Linebacker,” grunts the jock to the left of the Clone, who has pizza sauce on his chin.

            “I figured. That was my crew back in school. Alright, names and positions. And tell me if the cafeteria food is always this bad.”

            The girls are Sharon and Alexis, the boys, Landon, Cooper, and Braydon. The Clone, of course, is Conner, and the good humor of the soundoff falters when it gets to him.

            “I’m Conner Kent. I don’t play.”

            Jason lets him slide for the moment, but after Braydon with the broken nose says he’s a running back, he circles back.

            “Conner, right? What do you mean, you don’t play? You’ve got the body for it. Scared you’re gonna kill somebody?” He winks conspicuously at Sharon the blonde, who giggles. Ugh. Jason spares a moment to appreciate Barbara, Cassandra, and even Stephanie Brown, who’s just a couple of years older than these kids but so much more mature. They’d be laughing _at_ him by now.

            The Clone stiffens. “I’m just busy,” he says shortly. Jason wonders if he _has_ killed someone. It wouldn’t surprise him.

            “Conner works on his parents’ farm all the time,” says Alexis, practically leaning across Landon to get to him. “We, like, _never_ see him.”

            “But he’s cute, so we keep him around, right Conner?” says Sharon, who’s sitting next to the Clone. She loops her arm through his, letting her left breast brush against it. The Clone doesn’t look uncomfortable. It gets Jason’s hackles up: if the Clone really is fucking Tim, he’d better be over the moon about the kid. Jason would still take him down, but he’d feel better about the whole thing.

            “On the farm all day! That blows, man. Sunrise to sundown, huh? No rest for the wicked.”

            The Clone shrugs. Jason’s starting to get annoyed. The way Damian talked about him sometimes, during his stint with the Teen Titans, the Clone’s a jock, prone to inane ramblings and idiotic ideas. He’s also easily the dumbest member of the team, judging by the number of times Damian’s used the word _imbecile_ to describe him. Although… Who knows, maybe Damian’s secretly unhappy about the Tim situation too.

            So why isn’t the Clone warming up to him? Sure, Jason’s suspicious, and sure, his alibi isn’t exactly rock solid, but if you’re stupid, you’re not supposed to notice those things, and if you’re queer, you’re supposed to be distracted by Jason himself. Jason dislikes him more by the minute.

            “So what d’you do after dark? Paint the town red? Show these lovely ladies a nice time?” Sharon giggles again. Alexis smirks.

            “I guess I do homework,” the Clone says. He crosses his arms across his chest.

            “Homework? Man, you’re failing like three classes,” Cooper says.

            “Oh, Conner never comes out with us,” Alexis says. “We hardly ever see him. He’s _mysterious_.”

            Jason looks at the Clone, cocks his head to the side. The Clone stares him down. It’s downright freaky, and if Jason mentally erases all his hair, he’d be closer to looking like Luthor than Jason’s comfortable with. He imagines this kid, this unfriendly, dangerous kid, alone with Tim. Jason’s personally done enough physical and psychological harm to the Replacement over the years to know that not only does he get all hot and bothered around muscley guys, guys bigger than him, but that he’s also way too trusting of all the wrong people. He still trusts Jason, for fuck’s sake. He’s like Dick, in that sense.

            Well fuck that. Fuck Conner Kent. The kid’s going down.

            “Have we met before?” Conner asks, cold blue eyes searching Jason’s face. Shit. They’d never met in person, but there was no reason to think that the Clone had never seen a picture.

            “Ever been up to Topeka? No, wait, I was in the Corner Grocery late last night for a sixpack, maybe you caught me there?”

            “Nooo, I guess not,” the Clone says slowly. His eyes catch on Jason’s lips. Jason pushes his tongue out to wet them, watches as the Clone doesn’t look away. Finally, something going to plan. Jason slowly peels his banana.

            “So tell me about the school. My little brother is good in science—you guys have any of those, what are they called? AC programs?”

            “ _AP_ ,” Alexis says. “I’m in the AP English class. It’s really hard, most people can’t handle it.”

            “Brains _and_ beauty, I like it,” Jason says absently.

            “I’m doing AP Biology.” It’s Cooper. Jason’s surprised.

            “Hey hey! That’s what I wanted to hear. Hard?”

            “Yeah, I’m not doing real well in it, but I like it a lot. I wish I was smart enough to be a doctor or something.” The kid stares down at his hands, and Jason feels a sudden wave of compassion. He knows if Tim were here, he’d find a way to hook Cooper up with a tutor.

            “You’re plenty smart, Coop,” says Conner. “If you’d just study more…”

            “ _You_ never do.”

            “I never have _time_ ,” Conner says impatiently.

            “Too much farming to do, huh?” says Jason, inserting an inch of banana into his mouth and wrapping his lips around the bottom. He hollows out his cheeks just a little bit and tries not to smile when Conner looks at him and blinks.

            “I, uh, yeah,” he says. Jason chews, swallows, and repeats. Conner doesn’t look away.

            “Well, someone else then. Tell me about the school, the classes, the kids. Is this the sort of place I can leave my darling baby brother?”

            The girls start up immediately, with the human boys chiming in every few minutes. Jason listens mostly silently, mind on the game he’s playing. He taps the banana against his lips as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, takes unhurried, measured bites. Leaves a bit of mush on his lower lip to lick off slowly. He pushes the banana into his mouth and pulls it out again to say something. He watches the Clone out of the corner of his eye.

            Conner hasn’t moved, seems frozen. There’s color high on his cheeks and he keeps biting at his lower lip. Jason carefully keeps his features in check. Having this kind of power over someone, it’s hot. He’s down to the last couple of bites, so he runs his fingers down the length and lifts the fruit from the peel. He looks the Clone right in the eye as he slides the whole thing into his mouth. Conner’s throat works.

            Jason pretends to check the time on his burner phone and inserts himself into a break in the conversation, which has cycled around to the administration’s threat to introduce school uniforms.

            “Well this has been fantastic. I think I’m ready for the tour. Conner, what class do you have next?”

            Conner jerks his gaze back up to Jason’s face. He’s been staring at his mouth again. “Uh, uh, gym.”

            “Fantastic. You’re skipping and showing me around.” Jason pushes his chair back and rises. He stretches his arms above his head, making sure his shirt pulls up just enough to show the V at his groin. He hadn’t been sure exactly what the mission would entail before he’d left Gotham, so he’d gone ahead and plastered over most of his scars with the high-grade tattoo concealer Bruce kept in stock by the gallon. His stomach and groin look perfect, skin rosy and fine dark trailing hairs unmarred by the four or five deep scars that usually decorate the area.

            Conner gets up to follow him without protest, looking a little dazed. Alexis jumps up too. “I though _I_ was giving the tour,” she tells the Clone, a hard edge to her voice.

            Jason grins at her. “I’m thinking I need some guy talk right now, Lexi.” She likes the nickname. Sometimes these things are a gamble. “But I’ll see you in a few weeks, okay? Wait for me!” He tucks his coat under one arm and saunters out of the cafeteria. Conner follows as if on an invisible leash.

            “Woof, glad to be out of there. Girls are nice and all, but sometimes you just need a man. I like you. The strong, silent type.”

            “I’m pretty talkative around my friends,” the Clone protests, still following Jason like a puppy as he ambles deeper into the building.

            “Oh? And are those your friends?”

            “Those guys? I don’t see them too often.”

            Conner’s classmates wouldn't know the first thing about him, Jason realizes. He wishes he hadn’t wasted quite so much time taking their temperature in the lunch room. Jason wheels around and Conner nearly walks into him. He stops abruptly, too close. The Clone’s about Dick’s height, but Jason’s taller than Dick. He uses it to his advantage now.

            “Is there somewhere more private that we can go?” He touches the Clone’s arm briefly. “To talk, I mean.” He wonders if winking would be overkill, decides it would.

            “I-I think so,” Conner stutters. He doesn’t move, still staring at Jason.

            “You’ll have to lead the way, I’m afraid,” Jason says, amused despite himself. He steps to the side, gives a little flourish with his hand. Conner sets off around the corner and up a flight of stairs. Jason trots after him, hoping he won’t have to let the kid fuck him. It’s not like he hasn’t for a mission before, but…the Clone? The bastard of Lex Luthor? The boy Little Timmy’s ga-ga over? Jason thinks not.

            The Clone is disarming. Jason figures that’s how he operates—he has to assume that the Clone is at once smarter and stupider than he appears. At the beginning Jason expected him to be more like Cooper, Braydon, more like the lunchroom jocks, but he’s been kind of quiet, kind of reserved. Jason puts it down to having to act normal and keeping his mutant strength in check—they haven’t dressed Jason up in a monkey suit and paraded him in front of the press yet, but Jason can only assume that it’s coming. Presumably he’ll have to play nice too, just like Conner.

            The one thing that’s messing with his head in this whole operation is how blindsided Conner has seemed. He’s nervous, he’s stuttery, he’s shy—hell, he’s acting like he’s never flirted with a guy before. Like he’s never worked through the repression. Like he _hasn’t_ been tapping Tim’s pasty white ass for the last who-knows-how-long. Jason realizes he’s sexier and more manly than Tim will ever be, but at least some of this should be old hat to the Clone by now.

            The only explanation Jason can give is that Conner feels bad for hooking up with another guy while Tim’s still around. Jason can respect that, but of course the kid’s still _doing it_ , despite his qualms, so of course Jason’s gonna have to make him pay for that too.

            Conner finally stops outside a heavy wooden door, painted gray to match the wall colors. The plate on the wall next to it says “ROOM 212 / THEATER SUPPLIES.”

            “I think this—well, it’s not play season,” he says, and tries the handle. It’s locked. Jason brushes up against him to get a closer look. He slides a bobby pin from the pocket of his jeans and works it into the keyhole. It takes a beat, in which time Jason warns himself to be very, very careful, even though careful’s not usually his thing. He’s got Tim’s safety riding on this mission as well, and when it all stacks up, being pinned by a Super is no laughing matter. Conner Kent is terrifically dangerous, all pretence to the contrary.

            “Always be prepared. It’s like Boyscouts,” Jason says as the lock clicks and the door swings open. He feels for a lightswitch and doesn’t find one. Conner takes a step inside and grabs at thin air, yanking down and revealing a single naked lightbulb with a dangling string. The room is small, more of a closet, but it’s packed with props and costumes. A cutout of a ship leans against one wall and stacks of stools and painted boxes nearly reach the ceiling. There are garbage bags with ruffles and sleeves poking out, an umbrella stand with a bouquet of plastic swords, and a cascade of tophats spilling from a trunk. The majority of the floorspace is taken up by bolts and bolts of fabric, velvet, felt, cotton, and fleece.

            Jason kicks the door shut behind them and immediately backs Conner into the only free wall, the one with the ship propped against it. Up close Conner smells like sweat and spicy musk. Jason thinks it might be Axe. He hovers with barely an inch between them for one beat, two, three, then connects their mouths. Conner makes a low noise and tries to shove his tongue down Jason’s throat. Jason pulls back, nips Conner’s lip. Regains control. The second kiss is better. Conner brings his hands up to fist the back of Jason’s flannel and lets Jason direct him. Jason strokes Conner’s tongue, invites him back into his mouth, brings his hand up to cup the back of Conner’s head. Conner tastes good. Clean. If Jason were dumber, the Clone would almost have him fooled that he was just a smalltown kid from Kansas.

            Jason pulls back and strokes Conner’s hair. Conner’s eyes are glassy and he’s red in the face. “You okay, farmboy? Not gonna take a swing at me?”

            “Jesus,” Conner pants. “Fuck. Tanner.”

            “Not your first time, is it?” Jason asks. He pulls Conner’s hips forward a little by his beltloops.

            “I’m not a virgin,” Conner says. He brings up a hand and runs his thumb over Jason’s cheekbone, which Jason finds intensely annoying. “I swear I know you from somewhere.”

            “First time with a _guy_ ,” Jason says.

            “I’m pretty obvious, huh,” says Conner, the blush creeping down his neck.

            He has to be lying, but it’s a pretty convincing lie. Jason kisses him again, briefly, while he works his belt open and tugs down his fly. The kid’s hard as a rock. Jason’s only sporting a halfie, but he has a mission. He drags Conner’s jeans down a little and works his cock out of the fly of his plaid boxers. And _Jesus_ , Tim, the kid’s _huge_. Jason’s not quite as long and not quite as thick, and Jason’s bigger than the Clone everywhere else.

            “Surely not, surely you’ve been with a guy before,” Jason murmurs in Conner’s ear as he strokes him, slow and tight and good, rubbing his thumb over the head when he can. Conner’s working hard to remain upright; the hands on Jason’s back seem to be his only support. The kid’s biting his lip so hard it might start bleeding, but he can’t muffle everything.

            Conner has a wide face with wide features. He’s cut very all-American and looks like he’s just recently filled out and grown into his looks. He’s not someone you’d pick out of a crowd, but just now, with his eyes screwed shut and a flush painting his cheeks, yeah, okay, Jason can see the appeal. Can see where Tim’s coming from.

            “No, I—“ Conner groans. “I haven’t.”

            Jason’s starting to get irritated. He loosens his grip and works him faster. Conner buries his head in Jason’s neck. “I can’t believe it. Smooth operator like you? Maybe not these school kids, yeah, I get it, but your other friends, hmm?”

            Conner’s panting, too loud in Jason’s ear. “No,” he bites out.

            “I like you, kid, I care about you. No one you even _like_? Got a _crush_?”

            “I don’t—don’t—know—I’ve got—“ He moans. “Got a girlfriend.”

            Conner comes, shaking against Jason’s chest and splashing Jason’s hand and the Clone’s own shirt with spunk. Jason stills, wipes his hand on a clean part of Conner’s shirt. “A girlfriend?” Jason asks him carefully.

            Conner’s breathing is erratic. “Yeah, her name’s Cassie.” He makes a fumble for Jason’s jeans. Jason steps back and gently guides him to sit on the bolts of fabric.

            “Now hang on a minute, catch your breath. You look a little rough.” Conner nods, closes his eyes.

            Jason is alight with anger and confusion. A girlfriend? And it doesn’t seem like he has anything to do with Tim at all, besides fighting monsters or whatever the Teen Titans gets up to nowadays. In Jason’s experience men will tell you just about anything when their wood is up, but there’s shame in being a virgin in this sense, so why would Conner tell him that? Is it possible, possibly possible, that Damian Wayne was lying or misinformed about what Conner and Tim got up to when they were alone? Conner certainly hadn’t acted like he was old hat at getting up close and personal with dudes.

            Tim’s always been easy to read where emotions are concerned. You might not be able to tell what he’s thinking, but you can damn sure tell how he’s feeling. Mostly Tim’s emotions are negative, sadness, depression, stress, exhaustion. He’s rarely happy, that kid. It’s easy to tell where his heart and dick are at, too, and Jason hasn't even been around him all that much. He’s just obvious, unskilled in masking affection and interest. He’s like Dick in that regard, but Dick probably broadcasts on purpose. Jason himself is more like Damian, hard to read, hard to understand.

            Tim’s been in love with Dick probably since the day they met. He feels _something_ for Stephanie Brown, but Jason’s not sure what it is. Roy Harper makes him weak at the knees, as does Connor Hawke, but Jason thinks Connor’s the type of guy Tim would fall for, whereas Roy is patently _not_. Tim’s even attracted to Jason himself, interestingly enough. It’s an odd dynamic, but he sometimes thinks Tim would honest to God let Jason fuck him if Jason only went about it in the right way. He can’t pretend he hasn't wondered what that would be like.

            Regardless, he knows Tim is in love with Conner Kent, knows Conner Kent is _dangerous_ and has even broken his _arm_ , and now knows that Conner Kent apparently isn’t even interested in Tim as anything other than a teammate. What a fucked up situation. Jason feels bad for Tim, he really does. How far gone for someone do you have to _be_ before you start wearing their stolen t-shirts to bed?

            “How does your girlfriend feel about you getting, ah, favors from strange men?”

            Conner’s brow furrows. He doesn’t open his eyes. “I dunno. Guess she doesn’t know.”

            “And are you gonna tell her?” Jason relaxes back onto his elbows, tries to appear nonthreatening.

            “Probably not.” What an ass. Tim would be better off in love with Jason. Well, maybe not.

            “Your call, man. So you’re what, queer?”

            “I dunno.” Conner looks like all this thinking is hurting his brain.

            “Whatever, it’s cool. You’re young, you’ve got time to figure it out. But hell, look at you. You’re hot. I bet you’ve got a ton of boys all over you.”

            “Um…”

            There’s a stack of scripts in the corner. Jason kicks his feet up onto it. “C’mon. Who’s got a hard on for ya?”

            Conner half-smiles. “There’s this one dude, I think. Pretty much my best friend. He’s a little gay.”

            That’s definitely Tim he’s talking about. Jason sits up, leans closer. “That’s tough. What are you gonna do about it?”

            “I dunno. I mean, we could mess around, I guess.”

            And that’s all it takes: Jason sees red. _Fuck_ this kid that’s his _motherfucking brother_ he’s talking about first he breaks his arm now he wants to take fucking advantage of him, “You fucking do that and I’ll fucking _kill you_ you hear me I’ll _fuck you up_ alright!” Jason’s on his feet and towering over the Clone, who’s eyes are wide with shock. “Don’t think I won’t you fucking—I’ll cut your goddamn dick off I—”

            Jason wrenches the door open, snarls “I’ll be _fucking watching you_ ” and barrels down the hall and down the stairs, ignoring the panicked “ _Tanner_?” echoing after him.

            And _shit_ he can’t believe he lost it like that. He doesn’t even really know _why_ , just another Jason Todd rage special, but dammit, the Clone _knew_ about Tim, _knew_ how Tim felt, and still felt like he could make that sort of call. Had, hell, had cheated on his girlfriend with Jason. Was dumber than a brick, thought that he could potentially yank around a Bat without repercussions. Was a Super with the threat of losing out to his Luthor genetics, a Super who had broken the arm of a human. Of Jason’s _brother_. A Teen Titan who was maybe nice enough on the outside, who was only a kid, sixteen, maybe seventeen, Jason can’t remember, but _Jason_ could be nice on the outside when he was seventeen, and Jason was and is rotten to the core.

            He settles into a walk and pulls his overcoat on, heads out into the cold. He realizes he’s forgotten his jacket somewhere along the line, in the lunchroom or the supply closet, his jacket with money for the train home. It’s no big deal, really, there was maybe forty bucks in the pocket and absolutely no hidden weapons or drugs, but dammit, that just means extra work for him. He trudges through the falling snow towards the truck stop from which he started off a few hours ago, intending to jump the first semi out of here. He needs to be _home_ , _now_ , needs to talk to Tim.

            He hangs around the coffee pot in the truck stop, slowly sipping a cup of something thick and strong enough to do battle with the mountains of snow and making disinterested small talk with the truckers doing the same. One in particular is doing jumping jacks in the potato chip aisle, counting them off. His tasseled toboggan is in danger of flying off. His name is Ernie. “You gotta keep the blood movin, son. You get a flabby ass if you keep it glued to the seat.”

            “Yeah? How long you been drivin?” Jason drawls.

            “Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty—been a few hours, maybe three. Got outta OKC late, monkeys loadin up the truck don't know their heads from their asses.” He’s huffing, sweat beading his forehead.

            “One guy, came through here last week, said he’s got product needs unloading by sunrise, goin to Atlanta and didn’t get outta Topeka til noon.” The lies come easily to Jason. It’s all in the confidence.

            “Poor guy. Them folks, they just don’t think. Think we’re machines. Well hell, I gotta shit an sleep like everybody else.”

            “I feel for you. You got far to go?”

            “Headin to St. Louis, so a fair ways. Why, you tryin to bum a ride?” He’s suddenly suspicious, lays off the jumping and glares a little, but Jason knows he’ll have to risk sneaking aboard anyway. St. Louis is a fine city, random and out of the way, good train hubs too, if he remembers right. Dick told him Arsenal spent a season trying to clean up the East Side once, but it didn’t take and anyway he’d had a kid and gone back to Star City.

            “Naw, man, I work round here. Feed store. Just comin in for the coffee and conversation.”

            “Fair. Sorry bout that. You gotta ask, nowadays. Was haulin snack cakes a while back, Twinkies and them, and found a punk kid in the back when I docked in Freeport. Weasel’d eaten through two fuckin cases of the stuff. Had to push him around a little, you understand.”

            “You do what you gotta do,” Jason says serenely, picturing the dire straits Ernie would find himself in if he ever tried to push Jason around a little.

            “I’m shovin off. Pour me another cup of that joe, will you? One for the road.”

            Jason does, and waits until Ernie’s in the cab before sliding out the door and over to the semi. It’s a serious hatch in the back, one that would be sure to squeal if he tried prying it open. He swings himself to the top of the truck instead, landing with light feet and keeping low to avoid the stares of curious passersby. There’s a port in the roof midway down the cargo. He twists it open and slips through while the truck fires to life around him.

            There’s not a lot of room in the back; the flats of Coca-Cola are stacked pretty high, but he wiggles around and opens up a space for himself in the middle of the truck, five or so feet off the bed. The climate control is cold, but it’s colder outside, so there’s some improvement, at least. He huddles in his overcoat and cuts open one of the flats with the dagger strapped to his calf. “To Timmy’s future,” he mutters, raising a can of cherry coke to the ceiling.

            Five hours is a long time to balance on cold flats of cherry coke. He can’t seem to fall asleep, which worries him more than anything. He’s approaching sixty hours with no sleep, and he knows from experience that seventy two is his limit before the hallucinations start. Instead of sleeping, he sits and shivers and stews. He tries to plan what he’s going to tell Tim, but everything sounds wrong and he keeps getting too angry to continue. He drinks another coke, one with a twist-top, and pisses into the empty bottle. He seals the pee and stows it in his pocket to dispose of somewhere less incriminating.

            Ernie doesn’t stop until he rolls into St. Louis around six o’clock. Luckily it’s nearly dark outside at this time of the year, so Jason is able to extricate himself with minimal difficulty. His limbs are stiff and his joints hurt, but he pushes up through the portal and drops down off the side of the truck anyway. They’re at a warehouse, which isn’t ideal, but Jason still manages to sneak inside. It’s dark in the offices—Ernie must be getting in late, and the only people left around are the drudges helping to unload. A painted elephant statue and a pot of paperwhites mark a secretary’s desk; Jason digs through the drawers until he unearths a fat tube of mascara. He had been hoping for eyeliner, but it would serve.

            He finds a bathroom with a mirror and lines his eyes thickly with the mascara, rubbing the thick gel onto his fingers and from there onto his eyelids and below his lashes. He slips off his beanie and scrapes the rest of the mascara into his hands, then uses it as cream to slick his hair into some semblance of a mohawk. The black mascara darkens his white streak, and he rubs from root to tip to coat everything in black. He musses his clothes, going for some combination of punk rocker and prostitute—you never know what might get you picked up on the street.

            Before he leaves he uses the toilet and empties his bottle of pee into it before he flushes. The bottle he tosses into the trash, the empty mascara tube he pockets. In the offices, he boots up a computer and checks his location. Apparently he’s eight miles from the train station, which is almost walkable but not quite, in this cold. If he were wearing his uniform under the civvies he’d try it, but without the bodysuit he might freeze.

            He wipes the memory and turns off the computer before making his way out into the snow again. He heads for the main highway and walks swiftly under the streetlights, thumb out. He walks for thirty minutes before a pickup truck slows and stops.

            Jason mentally flips a coin. Good guy or john? He’s a little big now to pass for a hooker, but some cunts didn’t think of that. The window rolls down and deliciously warm air blasts Jason in the face, along with cigarette smoke and a sour note of alcohol. The man inside grins too widely. Dammit. Fine. He’ll play this game, and the train station isn’t too far.

            He leans in close. “Well hey there,” Jason says. “You look like just what I needed tonight.”

            “Oh yeah? And what’s that?” The guy in the car looks him up and down. Jason smoothes his hands across his thighs.

            “Well normally I’m lookin for cash and a good time, but tonight I just want the good time. And a ride to the train station in your big ol truck.”

            “That ain’t far. Hop in, and we’ll see what.”

            Jason tries not to look relieved as he moseys around to the passenger side and slides into the stained leather seat. The car stinks, but it’s so warm it makes him shiver all over again. He curls himself in the seat, trying to look as small as possible. It’s hard to hide just how big he is now, but the john might get antsy if he looks too powerful.

            “Cold out tonight, gonna need some warming up,” Jason says.

            “That so,” the john says. His erection tents his workpants. He’s a plumber, or an electrician, something like that. “What’s your name, prettyboy?”

            “Whatever you want it to be, baby,” Jason says, and flicks through the radio.

            It’s ten minutes to the train station, another five to get inside—a snowplow lumbers across the entrance, turns ponderously down the street. The john parks away from the lightpoles and turns off the truck. Jason immediately feels the cold start to seep back in. He thinks about breaking a couple of the john’s ribs, but decides against it. Quick and quiet, that’s how this needs to go. He slips two fingers into the turned-up hem of his beanie and twists out a mini spritzer, shaped like a sample of perfume.

            The john grins when Jason unclips his seatbelt, but then Jason sprays him in the face with the knockout gas and hightails it out of the truck, and that’s the end of that.

            The snow is freshly plowed and Jason leaves hardly any footprints on his way to the station. The website had mentioned two trains for Gotham, one at midnight and one at six AM. Midnight is an hour away, and Jason can’t go into the station or risk being caught doing something suspicious on the CCTV. Suddenly he realizes how dumb he is—he should have waited it out in the warehouse, or at least knocked the john out manually and sat in the truck.

            Jason finally roars into the cave on a bike he’d stashed in a safehouse at ten in the morning. He’s _exhausted_ , aching, and in an absurdly pissy mood. He’d spent the train ride grabbing snatches of deeply unsatisfying sleep and avoiding both the security cams and a bitchy stewardess who demanded to see his ticket. At least he’d been able to wash the gunk off his face and out of his hair in the train bathroom. His mind is running a little fuzzy right now, but he won’t be able to sleep until he talks to Tim.

            Tim himself appears just below Jason, on a lower level of the cave. He’s halfway into a business suit, dress shirt unbuttoned and coat slung over an arm. He’s headed for the bathrooms, but Jason flips down onto the head of the dinosaur and calls to him.

            “Replacement. Hey, Replacement.”

            “Not now, Jason,” Tim says.

            “Wait, Repla—Tim.”

            The kid turns, at that. Half his jaw is mottled blue and black. He has a tub of concealer from the supply room in hand.

            “Yikes, rough night?” Protecting their faces was one of the first rules Batman taught them. It’s key to maintaining a secret identity. You can hide everything else under clothes, but a busted head will always attract suspicion.

            “Chinatown fights dirty,” Tim explains. “Where have you been?”

            “Hey now, I don’t have to check in every five minutes anymore, remember? It’s a new era in Hood-Bat relations.”

            “It’s still _worrying_ ,” Tim snaps. Jason drops from the dinosaur, catching himself on its arms for a spin-drop that even Dick would be proud of, nevermind that it makes him dizzy as hell.

            He stretches and pops his back while his head clears. “Aww, Timmy, I didn’t know you _cared_.”

            “I _don’t_ ,” Tim says. “What is it?”

            And all of a sudden, Jason doesn’t know how to start this conversation. For a time all he wanted was to shove the information into Tim’s face, to maybe laugh a little as the kid’s stupid crush collapsed. Then he wanted to warn him, to spin some kind of cautionary tale out of it. Now he suddenly realizes that what he’s about to tell Tim will _hurt_ him, maybe more than Jason originally realized. And maybe it’s just the exhaustion talking, but Jason doesn’t want to deal with that.

            “Uh.” He’s stalling for time. Tim’s getting impatient. “Listen.”

            “I’m supposed to be reviewing the quarterly reports downtown in an hour,” Tim says, glancing at the Rolex on his wrist.

            And fuck it, okay, he has to do this. “Can we go somewhere more private? It’s kind of sensitive information,” he says, glancing up at a corner of the Cave where he knows cameras are placed.

            Tim’s surprised, but hesitant. “It’s important,” Jason adds.

            “Yeah, okay,” Tim says, and sets off up the stairs to the Manor. Jason follows him through the hallways to Tim’s room, keeping quiet until the heavy door is shut and locked. “I’ve debugged it and I make regular cam sweeps,” Tim says, heading to the mirror and beginning to cover the bruises on his face with practiced swipes of makeup. “So what’s the big secret?”

            Jason sits down on the bed. “It’s about Superboy.” Tim lowers his hand. Their eyes meet in the mirror.

            “What about him,” Tim says, voice flat.

            “You need to stay away from him.”

            “What the hell, Jason—“

            “He’s _dangerous_.”

            “You’re the last person I’d ever expect to sound just like Bruce,” Tim says nastily.

            Ouch. “He’s a Luthor clone with the strength of a Super, and he’s got no respect for you.”

            Tim spins around to face him. His face is perfect again, delicate features unmarred by the evidence of anyone else’s fists. “Conner isn’t dangerous and has plenty of respect for me. I’ve known him since I was _thirteen_ , Jason. And, wow, you know what? _You’re_ dangerous and have no respect for me, and yet here we are.”

            Jason snorts. “I respect you plenty. It’s why I’m telling you this.”

            “Right, okay, are we done?” Tim starts buttoning his dress shirt, movements jerky and agitated.

            “He knows about your stupid crush, Tim.”

            Tim pauses for a beat, coloring. “No he doesn’t,” he says, too loud.

            “He told me he does.”

            “He _told_ you? Where were you yesterday?”

            “He told me he knows. And that he doesn’t like you like that.”

            Tim notes the dodge but doesn’t press, for now. “I fucking know that, Jason; he’s straight.”

            “Yeah, well, no he ain’t, and he’s planning on fucking you.”

            Tim sighs heavily and cards his fingers through his hair. It’s getting too long, curling gently under his chin and making his eyes look huge. “Okay, Jason. Okay. I’m done with this. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m done.”

            “I went to Smallville yesterday, after Damian said you two were fucking. I know you’re not,” he says, when Tim looks like he’s going to interrupt. “I read his file. Christ, Tim. He broke your arm.”

            “You _shot_ me,” Tim says coldly.

            “You shouldn't fuck me either!” Jason exclaims. Tim blushes again. “So I went to Smallville. Did some recon. Wanted to figure out how far things went with you. Gave the Clone a handjob in a closet—“

            “You _what!?_ ” Tim starts towards him. Jason isn’t worried—he can still probably take Tim out if things go south. He’s bigger and stronger and fights dirty, something Tim will never learn how to do. “You’re lying.”

            Jason scoots back up against the pillows of the bed and stretches his legs out across the navy comforter. God but Tim’s bed is comfortable. Better than his own by far. Jason’s so tired, and he’s decided he doesn’t have the energy for this. “Oh? Then how do I know your Super has a fucking enormous cock, and a girlfriend named Cassie, whom he told me about _as he was coming_ , mind you. You can scan me for DNA, but I think I got it all off by now.”

            Tim’s stiff as a corpse at the end of the bed. His knees are locked tight. Jason hates this. “I don’t understand,” he murmurs.

            “What’s not to get? He wants sex and doesn't care how he gets it. No big mystery. Told me he knows you’re gay for him, says he wants to mess around with you.”

            Tim’s got the beginnings of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Jason thinks he’s not explaining things well enough. “No, no, no. He knows you like him and doesn’t care. He’s keeping the girlfriend. He just wants to _use you_. He’s no good, Tim.”

            Tim kneels onto the bed. Both his knees pop loudly, but his face is earnest. “Conner doesn’t use people.”

            “You’re right, he’s not smart enough for that.”

            “Can’t I make my own decisions, Jason? Aren’t I old enough for that?”

            “There _is no_ decision here. He’s going to try to manipulate you for sex.” Jason slaps the blanket. Why is Tim being like this?

            “What if I want to let him? Huh?”

            “What if you— _Tim_.” Tim turns his face away. “Tim. Kid. I know you love him. But be smart about this. Don’t be like Bruce.”

            “It’s just sex, Jason.” Tim’s can’t look him in the eye. Jason thinks Tim’s probably a virgin, which is astounding to Jason. He lost his own virginity on the street when he was ten.

            “For him, maybe. Christ, Tim. Anyone would be better than Conner Kent. He broke your arm.” Jason’s reached the stage of exhaustion where his whole body feels light as a feather. Nothing has weight.

            “You shot me,” Tim says sullenly.

            “Yeah, well, you know what? Even I’d be better than Superboy. At least I don’t have some girlfriend to cheat on.”

            “You?” Tim’s laughing. “You want me to have sex with _you_?”

            No. Well, _yes_ , but no. But. Maybe it would be better for Tim to get it out of his system now than to sit on the Clone’s dick and then drown himself over a broken heart. No, wait, this is a terrible idea. Very bad. “I respect you more than he does,” Jason finds himself saying.

            “But, it’s you,” Tim says. He’s still laughing. Jason can’t help cracking a grin.

            “Hey, I’m a catch. Look at this body. I’d treat you right.” Oh, this is so wrong.

            “Jason,” Tim wheezes. He’s beautiful, eyes bright and face alive.

            “I know you’re a virgin. Listen, your first time should be done right. I mean, mine wasn’t, mine was horrible. Yours should be good. Not with him. You shouldn’t hate yourself afterwards.”

            “Are you—wait, are you serious?” Tim’s eyes are light blue, still darker than Jason’s, but now they’re very bright.

            Jason is shy, all of a sudden. “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, why not me, right?”

            “I can think of several reasons why not you,” Tim replies, but he’s smiling again. “You shot me, for one.”

            “I’m sorry for shooting you,” Jason says, and would say more, only Tim’s crawling towards him and his mouth has gone very dry.

            Tim kisses him gently, barely a press of lips, and pulls back. Jason tugs his arms, pulls Tim across his chest. Up close, Tim smells like airy cologne and weighs practically nothing. Jason presses his nose into Tim’s neck and nips the skin. He’s suddenly panicked with how young he is. Jason himself is twenty-two, and is he four or five years older than Tim? He rolls them over, laying Tim onto his back like he’s a doll. He cages him in with his elbows. “You’re eighteen, right?” Jason murmurs, feeling like he can’t speak above a whisper.

            Tim’s smiles at him, running his hands down Jason’s chest. “Nope.” Shit. Jason pulls back a little, unsure. He remembers sex at seventeen. Talia, and then Egon. Maybe if he’d been older… “It’s fine,” Tim says, grabbing the front of his flannel with two fists and hauling him back down. “It’s fine. I’m with you.”

            “I shot you,” Jason protests.

            “You wouldn’t do it again,” Tim replies, working open the line of buttons down the front of the flannel.

            Jason rolls onto his side. Tim turns to face him. “I’m not a very good person. Better me than Conner, but God, do you really want to lose your virginity to the Red Hood? I should get Dick in here. He’d be the perfect first time.”

            “We can work on that later,” Tim says. He scoots closer, too close, pressing his body flush against Jason’s. Tim’s hard. Jason is too, and now Tim knows it.

            Tim’s whole face is flushed. “Why are you letting me do this?” Jason asks.

            “You’re hot, safe, and offering,” Tim says, returning to Jason’s buttons. _Safe?_

            “And I care about you. I do, Tim.”

            Tim pulls his head down and kisses him, hard enough to click their teeth together. Tim’s good at it, much better than Conner. He did date Stephanie for a year or two, and Jason assumes Tim at least made out with her sometimes, even if that’s all they did. Tim doesn’t talk about the relationship, but Jason’s heard from others that it wasn't a great one, that all of Tim’s negative qualities tended to come out when they were together. The girl deserves someone who actually loves her, Jason thinks. Stephanie’s fun, blonde, won’t take any shit, and just the sort Jason would be in love with if he were fifteen again.

            “I know. That you care,” Tim says after some time. He’s out of breath and his long hair is a mess. He’s looking at Jason like Jason’s something beautiful, like Jason’s worth something. It’s probably because Jason’s the first boy he’s ever kissed, but it makes his gut twist nonetheless.

            “I won’t hurt you again. You know that, right? I’m not gonna hurt any of you.” His brain is disengaged from his mouth. He feels slow and sleepy, and like he’s gonna say something he’ll regret in a minute.

            “Alright, Jason.” Why the hell does Tim trust him? Jason wouldn’t trust Jason, not to spar with, not to speak with, and certainly not to fuck with. He wants to swallow Tim whole and keep him safe in his stomach. He settles for sliding a hand up the back of Tim’s undershirt and skating his fingers over the hot skin, raised and pocked with scars. He pushes his tongue into Tim’s mouth and holds on tight.

            Tim shifts his hips into Jason’s, rocking slowly. Jason breaks away from Tim and half rolls onto his back, slipping a packet of lube from his pocket up his sleeve as easily as he’s ever done a knife. He opens his belt, flips the button, tugs down the fly. Tim’s hands are on his hips to pull down his jeans and boxer-briefs, gentle as anything. He kicks them off and doesn't even prompt him before Tim shucks his own.

            They fit together about as well as can be expected, awkwardly and too much and not at all. But Jason has one hand around their cocks and the other spread against the small of Tim’s back, sweaty against the hot skin, holding him close. Tim hums open-mouthed against Jason’s neck with each stroke, tiny soft sounds, so embarrassingly virginal. Jason stops thinking, stops thinking about anything that’s not Tim and his body and how it’s moving.

            He pulls away and shows Tim the packet of lube he has up his sleeve. He doesn’t miss the way Tim’s eyes widen—nerves, maybe a little fear. “Do you want—this?” Jason asks, holding the packet between two fingers.

            Tim glances at Jason’s cock—as big as the rest of him, and that’s not bragging—and swallows. But he meets Jason’s gaze with determination and nods. His cheeks are flushed, lips dark and wet, and some of the makeup has been rubbed off his jaw. Flashes of purple bruise track their way towards Tim’s cheekbone. Jason realizes he doesn’t have a condom, and is relieved.

            “Just fingers, okay?” he says. They both relax a little. Fingers they can handle. Jason’s always preferred getting fingered to fucked, himself. Doesn’t much like being fucked at all, really. Feels too full to him, brings back too many painful memories. Fingers he likes okay, but given the choice he’d rather not have anything near his ass at all. He expects Tim will feel differently, but he knows the signs, knows what to watch for. Just in case.

            Tim sits up to tug off his shirt, cock curving to smear a line of precome against his belly when he moves. Jason follows suit and lets himself enjoy the way Tim’s eyes trace his torso. He kisses Tim again and Tim opens for him, lets Jason push his tongue gently into his mouth and doesn’t say anything when both of Jason’s hands are curved around his head, the right floating against his bruised jaw. Jason feels too big, all of a sudden, too big in his own skin, too huge curled around this slip of a boy who for all his corded muscle and business acumen is still a whole head shorter and a hundred pounds lighter and years younger than Jason.

            “I’m sorry, for everything I did,” he whispers against Tim’s jaw. “I was stupid and so angry, and I hated you so much.” His tongue is like sand. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He hates himself.

            “Jason. It’s okay. I forgive you. We all forgive you.”

            “I didn’t even know you. I _don’t_ know you. I still don’t know any of you. I should’ve been here. You all needed me.”

            Tim eases himself down onto the pillows again. He curls onto his side and addresses Jason’s scars. “We still need you. I grew up needing your memory and now I have your reality. And I probably need that too, even if it sneaks behind my back to mess with my friends.”

            Jason joins him on the pillows. The lube is hot in his hands. “You did need that. That’s the first decent thing I’ve ever done for you.”

            “You save my ass in the field every once in awhile.” Tim scrunches his nose.

            “That’s just being a good Bat,” Jason says, and flushes when he realizes what he said. Tim grins and runs his fingers down Jason’s abs, over his cock with featherlight touch.

            “Be a good Bat and fuck me, then.”

            “Just fingers, okay?”

            “Yeah, okay,” Tim says, suddenly shy, and worms himself closer, tucks himself into Jason’s chest, head on Jason’s arm.

            Jason pulls Tim’s leg up and over his hip, opening him up. He rips open the packet of lube behind Tim’s back and lets the whole mess dribble down his fingers into his palm. “Touch yourself,” he whispers into Tim’s ear. Tim reddens but does what he’s told, sliding a hand down his stomach to wrap around his cock. The backs of his knuckles brush Jason’s dick as he moves.

            Jason slides his slick fingers down Tim’s crease and brushes up against his hole. He edges the tip of one finger inside, just the tip, and thinks that even his fingers are too huge for Tim, that he’ll hurt Tim, but then Tim gives a little gasp and _relaxes_ , and Jason’s finger slides in. Tim’s tight and hot and Jason is the first to ever be here, to ever do this with Tim, and he fights off the specter of possessiveness before it can even appear. Tim isn’t his. Jason’s doing him a favor, performing a _service_ , and that’s the end of it.

            Jason gives Tim a moment to get used to the first finger before trying another. He doesn’t give Tim time to shift in discomfort when he has the second all the way in: he curls them down the front wall of muscle until he finds the bump that has Tim gasping in shock. He strokes Tim’s prostate gently, trying not to overdo it, but Tim presses his face into Jason’s shoulder and abandons stroking his cock for holding onto Jason like he needs an anchor.

            “Is it good?” Jason asks, pressing the question into Tim’s hair. Tim opens his mouth against Jason’s shoulder to answer, but a moan falls out instead. Jason spreads his fingers and adds a third. Tim pants. He works Tim open carefully, fucking him on his fingers only a little bit, just to get him used to the idea. He concentrates most of his attention on his prostate, rubbing around and over it until Tim’s voice is an unbroken whine.

            Jason’s only distantly aware that he’s rutting against Tim’s belly. The way Tim is falling apart in his arms is doing it for him more than anything. “C’mon, Tim. Touch yourself.” Tim unlocks his grip from Jason shoulder and drags his hand back to his cock. He manages four or five strokes before he comes, shaking and crying out in Jason’s ear. Come paints Tim’s stomach. Jason stills his fingers and doesn’t pull out until Tim’s calmed down.

            Tim keeps his leg thrown over Jason’s hip while his hands find Jason’s cock. He works him with sure strokes, sucking a bruise into Jason’s neck as Jason tries to keep his noises to a manly rumble. He comes hard, curling around Tim and letting his voice crack the way it wants.

            He’s not sure what to do now. Tim pulls away first, sits up and runs his fingers through his hair, carding it back into order. Jason rolls onto his back and stretches. Tim’s back is a map of scars, raised and scooped, round and jagged. Jason can pick out bullet wounds and clawmarks, sword cuts and shrapnel, acid burns and a circle of toothmarks on his shoulder. His own back looks no better, although Jason’s been flogged before and Tim seems to have been spared that particular unpleasantness. There’s not a lot of free space on the entirety of their bodies. Any normal person would find their naked skin grotesque.

            It’s not hard to find the scar from the bullet Jason put in him. It was a clean shot, in and out, bloodloss and a chance of death. Jason reaches up and fits the pads of his fingers over the exit wound.

            Tim dresses in silence. Jason watches him from the bed, the clean lines of him, swiping at his stomach with a towel, pulling new clothes from his closet. Hiding his scars under starched collars and pressed pants. He adds another layer of makeup to cover the bruise on his jaw. Jason tries not to fall asleep and mostly fails.            

            He wakes up when Tim sits on the edge of the bed and touches his knee. “I’m going to the meeting. They’re used to the Waynes being late.”

            “Go bring home the bacon,” Jason says, and stops himself from reaching for Tim.

            “I’ll probably see Kon today.” Tim isn’t looking at him. Jason thinks Tim wants something from him, some specific reaction. Jason isn’t sure what it is or how to give it to him.

            “Will you tell him it was me?” he asks, and no, that wasn’t it.

            “I don’t know. Depends on what he says.” There’s a pause. “Jason. Thank you. For this.”

            “Yeah, anytime.” The come on Jason’s stomach is cold and drying.

            “Really? Really anytime?” A thrill runs through Jason. Tim still won’t look at him.

            “Sure, why not. Keep it in the family, and all that.” He keeps his tone light. Does this make him just as bad as the Clone? It does. It _does_.

            “Yeesh, Jay, c’mon,” Tim says, but he’s laughing. Jason instantly feels better, more like himself.

            “What? It’s true! Nothing like deflowering your own brother,” Jason says.

            “I’d better go,” Tim says, blushing high on his cheeks and grabbing for the scarf folded on the desk. The door closes heavily behind him.

            Jason spreads himself across the blankets, still entirely naked, taking up as much of the bed as he can. The room is too big and too orderly without Tim in it. Too quiet. Too empty. Sleep hits Jason like a car crash, sweeping him under before he can even wonder what the hell he’s just started.

            Jason’s out a solid ten hours, wakes up for the bathroom and to put his underwear back on, and goes right to sleep again. It occurs to him that he should probably get back to his own room, but it’s all the way across the house, tucked into a private corner, and besides, Tim’s bed is wildly comfortable. He comes out of his second deep sleep to the feeling of a light touch on his shoulder. He blinks fuzzily. It’s dark in the room and he’s not quite awake, but the word _Tim_ flashes somewhere deep in his brain and he reaches for the form hovering over him without thinking. Tim slips down beside him easily enough, a little gingerly, maybe.

            And then the rest of Jason wakes up.

            God, how embarrassing. He tosses an arm over his eyes and groans. “What time is it?” he asks.

            “Four AM,” Tim says. “You missed patrol.” Tim smells like soap and shampoo and he’s shower-hot where he’s pressed against Jason’s arm.

            “I wasn’t gonna be much good anyway,” Jason says. Holy hell. He really did have sex with Tim yesterday. Took the kid’s virginity. Bruce is going to _kill him_ if—when—he finds out. And this after tearing off to Smallville to stop Superclone from doing the same thing. How fucking tired _was_ he last night? What in the name of all that’s decent is _wrong_ with him?

            Well, what isn’t wrong with him, if you get right down to it.

            Tim’s tense beside him. Jason wonders if he’s expecting anything. If he wants anything. Jason should probably leave.

            But Tim levers himself up on one arm and Jason catches a flash of moonlight in his eyes before Tim kisses him, gentle and hesitant. Oh, God. He’s going to hell, going to hell, going to hell.

            “Going to hell,” he whispers against Tim’s mouth.

            Tim smiles, pulls back a little. “Don’t be dumb.”

            “I’m corrupting the youth,” Jason says tightly.

            “You can’t corrupt me, I’m too screwed up already.” Tim kisses him again, and this time Jason goes with it, pushes his tongue into Tim’s mouth and pretends he doesn’t have atrocious morning breath.            

            Tim rolls onto him, straddles his hips and leans down to bite his throat. Jason closes his eyes. It’s good, but if he’s gonna get hard he wants to pee first. “I could kill you twelve different ways from here,” he says conversationally as Tim shifts his hips Jason’s stomach.

            Tim breaks off from sucking a mark against his collarbone to laugh in his face. “Yeah, but since it turns out you’re a softie, I’m not that worried.”

            Jason wraps an arm around Tim’s back and flips them over with ease, dropping Tim none-too-gently against the pillows. Tim huffs and stretches, arms above his head, baring his throat. Jason strokes a hand down the pale smooth column, feeling the bump of Tim’s adam’s apple, the way Tim swallows, his racing pulse. “I’m not afraid of you, Jason Todd,” Tim says, and he feels that too, feels the vibrations.

            Jason pulls away, stomach churning. “Bathroom,” he mutters as Tim sits up, and tries not to run for the door.

            “Um, I’ll be here,” Tim says, and when Jason glances back as the door is swinging shut, Tim’s got his legs pulled up to his chest, small in the middle of the bed.

            He pees, washes his hands, and stares at himself in the mirror. The dark circles haven’t faded much. His neck is marked up, two soft bruises below his jaw and one on above his collarbone, bright red and accusing.

            His bike is still in the cave. He doesn’t have to go back.

            He goes back.

            Tim’s turned on the bedside lamp. He’s sitting up against the headboard, one pillow behind him and the other in his lap. Tim’s all shadows despite the light, face seems made for it, all cheekbones and elegant brow, fall of dark hair hiding the rest. He looks up when Jason steps into the room. Jason doesn’t think Tim was expecting him to come back. He stops in the middle of the room, unsure.

            “I talked with Conner today,” Tim says.

            Jason bristles at the Clone’s name. “When?”

            “After the quarterly reports meeting, outside of Gotham. I call his name and he shows up, no matter where I am.” There’s a moment of silence, and Tim’s next words are strained. “I used to think that meant something.”

            Jason folds his arms and waits.

            “So Kon shows up, looking like he’s being eaten alive by fire ants or something, and I barely have to ask him what’s wrong before the whole sordid tale comes spilling out. He’s not good with secrets.” Tim snorts, looks somehow fond. “Anyway, according to him, he’s cheated on his girlfriend and he’s not sure how it happened. Apparently a mysterious stranger showed up at lunch and seduced him. A mysterious _male_ stranger, so now he’s panicking, thinking he’s gay. And so I say, yeah, I know all about it.”

            Jason opens his mouth, but Tim says, “I didn’t tell him it was you. If he’s smart, he’ll figure it out, but Jason, Kon’s just not that smart. He’s my best friend and one of the best people I know, but he’s not _us_. So I tell him of course I’m not in love with him, and he says, oh, okay, but you are gay, aren’t you? And I say, I say,” Tim looks down at where he’s squeezing the pillow in his arms. “I say, yeah, something like that.”

            “Hey, that’s big,” Jason starts to say, but Tim cuts him off.

            “So then he starts freaking out about what Cassie’s gonna say, because he can’t keep secrets, and congratulations, Jason, you might have ruined my best friend’s relationship.” Tim chucks the pillow at Jason, who catches it easily. “Asshole.”

            Oh, like hell this is all gonna be turned against him. “You weren’t there—he said some stuff—“

            “Said some stuff, of course he said some stuff, he was going through a crisis that was all _your fault_ ,” Tim says. “Kon’s not a bad guy. He wouldn’t hurt me or Cassie or anyone, or at least he wouldn’t mean to.”

            “You’re not seriously blaming _me_ for all this,” Jason says, flush of anger threatening his chest.

            Tim sighs, curls out of his ball and leans back onto his elbows. “Why’d you do it, Jason? Last I remember, we barely spoke to each other out of the field.”

            The room is soft light, shadows and the glow of the lamp, the bruise on Tim’s jaw gone greenish. Jason doesn’t know what to say. “Because he’s a threat. Because he could’ve hurt you real bad, and I had to see if you were in danger.”

            “But why do you _care?_ ” Tim says, voice fading out at the end.

            Jason shrugs, awkward and embarrassed. “Nobody else seemed to. Figured it was time for me to take some responsibility.”

            Tim rolls off the bed and comes to Jason, planes of his chest bright in the low light. “No one cared because there was nothing to care about,” he says. He steps into Jason’s space, too close. Jason drops the pillow he’s still holding and brings his hands to Tim’s hips.

            “Yeah, well,” he says, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Tim’s flannel sleep pants.

            “Just being brotherly?” Tim breathes, looping his arms up around Jason’s neck.

            “Something like that.” Tim leans up. “You think you’re gonna get kissed?” Jason teases.

            Tim’s smile turns sly. “You want me to go begging to Superboy?”

            Jason growls and heaves Tim up into his arms, hands under his ass and appreciating how little Tim weighs. Tim wraps his legs around Jason’s waist and laughs. “Help me out, Jason. I know for a fact _you’re_ not getting any.”

            “Stalker,” Jason says, and his gut twists at how _fond_ the word sounds.

            “Hmm,” says Tim, leaning in and fitting their mouths together.

            Jason obliges and doesn’t even mind when Tim tangles his hands in Jason’s hair, overly familiar in a way that should concern Jason, should make him worry that he’s too far in. But he doesn’t care, and that worries him more. He carries Tim to the bed and dumps him on the mattress, crouching over him to box him in with his arms and legs. “Blushing virgin to _this_ in less than a day. I’m flattered.”

            “I was never a blushing virgin,” Tim says, and proves his point by cupping Jason through his boxers. Jason releases the air he’s holding in a gust and drags Tim’s pyjamas down. He mouths down Tim’s chest and sucks Tim’s cock until he has to hold his hips against the bed to keep him from bucking. Jason is good at blowjobs, learned young and knows how to keep his throat open and fight his gag reflex. Tim comes on his tongue and lies panting while Jason wipes his mouth.

            Tim moves to return the favor when he gets his breath back, but Jason flips Tim onto his stomach easily. Tim doesn’t fight it, just looks at Jason over his shoulder with dark eyes. Jason shoves down his underwear and spits in his hand for a little lube, but he won’t need much. He crouches over Tim and drags his cock between Tim’s cheeks, rutting quick and rough. It’s not enough but it’s good, even if he has to be careful without a condom. He leans forward and bites the nape of Tim’s neck like an animal.

            Tim presses back against him, moves his hips inexpertly, tries to help. Soon he’s hard again, rubbing himself against the blankets, and Jason remembers his own nonexistent refractory period at seventeen. Jason pulls up, frees Tim to turn over, and takes them both in hand while Tim demands to be kissed.

            “You’re a hot piece of ass, you know that?” he tells Tim after he’s come against Tim’s stomach and he’s focused all on Tim again, stroking him lazily while Tim whimpers.

            “Really?” Tim asks, grinning with his eyes screwed up tight.

            “Like you don’t know,” Jason says, thumbing the head of Tim’s dick, sneaking his other hand down behind Tim’s balls to press a finger against his opening. Tim’s breath catches and he spreads his legs wider, holds Jason’s gaze. Jason can’t look away, feels a flush creeping up his neck. “I wanna fuck you,” Jason murmurs, unthinking.

            “Yeah?” Tim gasps. Jason pushes the tip of his finger inside, but without lube that’s as far as he’s going. Tim arches and comes, his second orgasm in twenty minutes. Jason hovers over him until he opens his eyes. He smiles up at Jason, gentle and trusting. “I could get used to this,” he says.

            Jason could, too. Jason can’t remember the last time he had sex with someone he actually liked. Was it Talia? No, surely not. Surely there’s been someone since, surely. Jason’s belly sours when the seconds tick by and he can’t think of anyone, can’t think of a single person he’s had sex with in nearly six years whom he’s honestly _liked_ , who’s made him blush or sent his heart racing from anything other than fear or adrenaline or hate. There was Talia, and now there’s Tim. He thinks of marks in alleyways, villains he’s tailed, mercenary groups he’s infiltrated. He thinks of opening his mouth or spreading his legs or slipping on a condom and focusing on how it doesn’t really matter, how it will all be worth it, how sweet it will be to kill these men and women, or more recently to see them behind bars. It’s just a tactic, just another way to fight, and he doesn’t do it often. Doesn’t let it fuck with his head. But there it is, cold and unpleasant. He looks down at Tim with new eyes, suddenly and immensely grateful for him.

            “What?” Tim says, turning shy.

            “I—nothing, it’s—“ Jason stops, swallows. “I’m gonna run a patrol.” He slips off the bed, dragging his boxer-briefs back up and hunting for his jeans on the floor. “Been gone a couple nights. Crooks might be getting fresh with the neighborhood.” His shirts are on the floor as well, but he slings them over his shoulder.

            Tim sits up and rubs at his neck. “I could come with you,” he offers.

            Jason smiles at the floor, turned where Tim can’t see. He pauses at the door. “No, you sleep. But—“ He swallows. Licks his lips. “But next time.” He looks back over his shoulder. Tim grins at him, face surrounded by a mess of dark hair.

            “Next time,” Tim says, a warning, a promise.

            Jason steps out into the hallway, where it is still dark, where dawn has not yet arrived, but there it is, through the window, night bleeding into day.


End file.
